


Messed With The Wrong Heart

by fishfingersandjellybabies



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 10:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17526929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishfingersandjellybabies/pseuds/fishfingersandjellybabies
Summary: He had a feeling this would happen one day. It was a simple solution to a mutual problem, an almost mutual goal. An easy team-up.It was shocking it took them so long to think of it.





	Messed With The Wrong Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I probably didn’t do it justice but I have just been so obsessed with two major baddies teaming up against Bruce to get at 1+ of his kids. I had such a blast writing this, even though I’m bad at fight scenes. Bruce probably ran into Talia or Lincoln prior or found out about their plans somehow in a case etc etc. Dick and Damian (and the other kids) had no idea about anything beyond there being a threat Batman had to take care of. Bruce sedated/headphone’d Dick and Damian so there would be no chance of them interfering in the fight or attempts to sacrifice themselves to keep him safe. Bruce is very guilty/not guilty about doing it though. He also sent the others away to protect them as well.

It wasn’t complicated.

He sent Tim away to his Titans, Jason to his Outlaws. Cassandra to the protection of Kate, Barbara and Stephanie.

Didn’t tell them anything. The less they knew, the safer they were. They knew _something_ , though. All of his children did. Knew there was a threat coming, knew they wanted to help their father and should stay at his side.

No, he wouldn’t hear of it. Shooed them all away. He could handle this himself.

Would, even if he had to die to do so.

He stood at the top of the stairs, watching, waiting. His only light was the moon shining through the giant windows of the manor. He had some weapons nearby, but not on him. Had _no_ tools on him, in fact. Was just in sweatpants and a tshirt. Socks.

But ready. Oh, he was _so_ ready.

He had a feeling this would happen one day. It was a simple solution to a mutual problem, an almost mutual goal. An easy team-up.

It was shocking it took them so long to think of it.

He heard the sudden call of disturbed birds in the trees outside, checked his watch. Barely the middle of the night.

He tapped a button. Heard the locks click shut on the door down the hall. Cracked his knuckles, stretched his neck. Smirked.

_Bring it on._

The glass of those giant windows shattered, attackers crashing through in waves of two, three, four, _six_.

Some wore maroon, covered their mouths. Others wore black, gold, facemasks with large black eyes.

The League of Shadows. The Court of Owls.

They all jumped. All had various blades already drawn. Bruce didn’t care. Grabbed one assassin before he landed and swung him like a bat, taking out the line of fighters behind him easily.

A Talon tried to use that to her advantage, and duck around Bruce’s arms. He merely kicked backwards, hitting her spine. Flipped over her, and out of the way of others. Flung her body towards another mob of them, and barely held back his laugh as they tumbled comically down the stairs.

The numbers didn’t matter. Their means didn’t matter. He was prepared for this. Had prepared for this since day one. Since he started being Batman. Since he started being a father.

Not to mention: fighting was in his blood. For him, fighting was _fun_.

Especially when he knew how to win. Especially when he knew he was _going to_ win.

Especially when it was for _love_.

Besides, these were just the lackeys. He could let every single one of them go past if he felt like it. They’d be taken down when they got to their destination. When they got to that door he locked with a deadbolt, combination lock, and defense system even he couldn’t get through. And even if they got through that, there was Hell and the Devil himself waiting for them inside.

But these fighters weren’t the main players. Oh, no. And even as he fought them, and beat them, he kept his eye out. Looked past them, for the two who were no doubt already present, somewhere in this house.

Them, he would not let by. Not ever. Not even if they killed him. Over his dead body and all that, but even if he was cold and bloodless, he wouldn’t let those two win. He wouldn’t let those two get near that door.

So he fought and he waited. Enjoyed the fight and enjoyed the waiting. Mostly because he didn’t have to hold back, not really, not here. He wouldn’t kill, of course not, still wouldn’t cross that line – unless he _absolutely_ had to.

But he didn’t have to have mercy.

Because under the smile and the enjoyment, was pure, raging fury. How dare they. How _dare_ every single one of these human beings, living or modified.

How dare the two he was waiting for.

They should have known better. Their leaders, the special two, _did_. So were they insane, trying the same thing over and over again? Or were they just stupid?

In the long run, he supposed, as he punched a Talon into an assassin and knocked them both unconscious against the wall, it didn’t really matter.

He figured it was time, when he noticed that there were no more enemies coming through the windows. When he was thrown against the banister next to the stairs, and saw that his front door had been opened.

So he dodged the next punch. Ducked the next stab, took the weapon and slashed at the back of both his attackers’ knees, then rolled to the wall, where his weapons still sat waiting. He grabbed a few smoke pellets, launching them straight into the faces of the mob running after him.

There were a few small clicks, a few louder hisses, then the landing was engulfed in gray.

He took down the remaining thugs with ease.

When he knocked the last assassin down for the count, tossing his unconscious body into a few Talons in a similar state, he just slowly backed out of the fog. Kept himself between the stairs and the door, his fists at the ready.

And when the smoke cleared, there they were. At the top of the stairs, one with a sword, the other a dagger.

“I want my son.” Talia said simply.

“I want my warrior.” Lincoln March added.

“Too.” Bruce looked to Talia. “Fucking.” He looked to Lincoln. “ _Bad_.”

Lincoln clicked his tongue and shook his head like he was disappointed. Talia just blinked slowly, and sighed.

Then, they came at him.

He blocked Talia’s blade while he kicked at Lincoln. The Owl got the blade into his calf before he went flying backwards, crashing into portrait of the grandparents they supposedly shared. Lincoln got right back up, plucked another dagger from the belt across his chest and came running back.

Talia just kept hacking at him. Pulling her sword and slashing it back down with even more force than before. Over and over and over. She was hitting his arm, his blood was spraying across her face, but she didn’t care. He knew that look in her eye. She was desperate. Crazed. Murderous.

She would get what she wanted, whether she killed her Beloved or not.

And even after all this time, it broke Bruce’s heart to fight her. To have to punch her in the throat and send her tumbling away as he turned to deal with Lincoln.

But he just couldn’t let her hurt their son again.

Lincoln was screaming as he came at him. Bruce merely ducked, let his ‘brother’ tumble over his shoulders. Lincoln gave another shout as he flopped to the floor, floundering to get himself righted.

“You were never supposed to have him!” Lincoln roared as he got to his feet. “He was promised to us!”

Bruce stood and looked at him with an emotionless gaze.

“Dick Grayson is not a thing to be _owned_.” Bruce countered. And it was hypocritical, he knew, and maybe showed just how similar he and this potential sibling of his were. “But I will _never_ let you take him from _me_.”

If Lincoln was going to respond, Bruce didn’t care. Not when he heard Talia leaping at his back.

He dodged her swing, yanking the sword from her grasp and snapping it against his knee, throwing the remnants over the banister. Caught her fists as she tried to slam them into his face and chest, pushed her kicks away like they were nothing.

“You didn’t _want_ him.” She hissed. “You _never_ wanted him. He’s in this world because _I said_ he could be. Now give him _back_.”

“Never.” Bruce swore. “I’ll never let you or your rotten father near him again so long as I live.” A pause, to correct. “So long as you’re like _this_.”

“He needs his mother.”

“He needs _love_.” Bruce pushed, trying to keep the begging out of his voice as her hits forced him back, as the railing began to dig into his spine. “And even I can’t give him the love he deserves, I’ll admit that – but this family _can_.”

Talia didn’t respond to that. Just let out a battle cry as she kicked out the railing behind him, and the wood shattered.

And he didn’t want to do it – he _didn’t_. But he had to. He had to win here, he had to beat her and Lincoln. He had to protect that door.

As he started to fall backwards, at the last possible second, he grabbed her instead. Used his momentum to pull himself up while simultaneously throwing her from the top floor of the manor.

She was so light compared to him that she flew instead of dropped. Hit her head on the nearby chandelier. Was unconscious before she hit the bodies of her army on the ground.

He grabbed the broken railing to balance himself, feeling blood blossom on his palm. He couldn’t lament his actions right now, or even take a moment to rest. Because Lincoln was still there. Lincoln March – maybe Thomas Wayne Jr. – he was still an annoyance that had to be dealt with.

So he tightened his grip on that broken banister and ripped it from its frame. Shifted his hold on it to be more comfortable, and turned towards Owlman.

The other was still on his knees, new knives in hand, deciding his next move. Bruce didn’t care. He’d bested this man before, and he’d gleefully do it again. So when Lincoln inhaled, when he shifted to move and use those blades, Bruce leapt and swung. As quick as he could. As _hard_ as he could

Over and over and over and over.

Even when Lincoln collapsed, Bruce didn’t stop. Just kept swinging. Kept hitting this man who threatened his family. Threatened one of his children.

Hitting and hitting and hitting and hitting and _hitting_.

The spray of blood didn’t stop him, nor the ache building in his arms. It was a groan from nearby. One of the assassins or Talons, already starting to wake up.

And he could fight them again, maybe. But he couldn’t guarantee a victory, not with the injuries already sustained, the energy he already used. Could still win, probably would. But not guarantee.

He _needed_ to be able to guarantee, here.

So he gave one last hit, then dropped the stick and backed away. Huffed and puffed for a few moments, then carefully dropped his shoulders, closed his eyes and leaned his face up towards the ceiling.

“It’s done.”

A second later, he heard the whipping of a cape in one of the windows. Glanced over his shoulder to find Clark and Diana.

“And everyone’s okay?” Clark asked, eyes darting around the bodies. He didn’t mean the criminals, of course.

Bruce turned to glance back at the door down the hall. “Everyone’s fine.”

“Then we’ll start loading out. I’ll call the others to help, so we can get out of here faster.” Clark sniffed. “You guys have somewhere to go tonight? The manor is…”

“Only the foyer is damaged. The rest of the house is fine.” Bruce grunted, stepping forward, not-so-accidentally kicking Lincoln March in the head as he did.

“…Bruce.” It was Diana, gently landing behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re injured. There’s blood everywhere. Let us fix you up first.”

He immediately shrugged her off. “The first thing you two should do is get Talia and Owlman the fuck out of my house.” Then quieter: “And I’m fine, Diana. Nothing serious. But thank you.”

Diana hesitated at the answer, but sighed anyway. Bruce watched her stoop and sling Lincoln March over her shoulder, listened as Clark gathered up Talia, before stepping off towards the door.

He waited until he was standing in front of it before hitting that button on his watch once more. Listened as the locks clicked again and the traps disarmed before opening the door as quietly as he could.

His eyes barely scanned the dim room, instead going straight to the bed in the corner. Dick’s bed, since this was Dick’s room.

Dick was asleep in said bed, just like Bruce had left him. His arm was wrapped around an equally slumbering Damian, who was curled into his side like a cat, using his shoulder as a pillow. Both tucked in, both in comfortable pajama-esque clothing, both with noise-cancelling headphones tight to their ears.

And one Alfred Pennyworth sitting in a chair next to them, shotgun across his knees at the ready.

“Did I hear Clark and Diana out there already?” Alfred asked, leaning back a little in relief. Bruce nodded silently as he entered the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. “The battle is already won?”

“Piece of cake.” Bruce mumbled walking forward. “How are they? Has the sedative worn off at all?”

“No, sir. Neither of them have moved an inch, and have remained entirely unaware of the battle just waged for their honor.” Alfred sniffed. Bruce cracked a smile as he passed him and stared down at that mattress. “…Might I say, Master Bruce, as I have so many times already…they’d have been happy to fight at your side this evening.”

“No.” Bruce answered simply. Carefully, he reached out, brushing Dick’s hair off his forehead. “I won’t let Talia or the Owls even _look_ at them. I refuse.”

Alfred hummed thoughtfully. “Despite their defeat…do you believe they will attempt this again? Together or separately?”

“With even more numbers next time, I bet.” Bruce gently pulled the blanket up to Damian’s chin, brushed at the fingers the boy had curled up by his mouth. “But I’ll be ready.”

“And let the family assist you in protecting their brothers as well.” Alfred tried. “Let the boys protect themselves.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. Just sat down on the bed, and stared at its occupants. At their peaceful, relaxed, young faces. At the ones he would gladly die for. Two of the ones who owned his heart, wholly and unconditionally. His eldest and his youngest.

He softly ran his knuckles over the hand Dick had across Damian’s shoulder, carefully stroked Damian’s arm. Glanced out the window to watch his friends drag his enemies away.

“ _I’ll_ be ready.”


End file.
